The Memory Key (3 page)

“That's a new one,” says Dad. His voice is stiff, and when I glance at him I know he's thinking about
her
.

“That's a dumb one,” I say. “These moments are for keeps? More like these moments are for creeps.”

He laughs obligingly. “Oh, Lora. What would I do without you?”

The weatherman comes on, his tan as golden as his hair. He tells us it'll be hot and humid for the next few days, with possible storms coming in over the weekend. Then the picture flickers, then the screen empties.

“I'll get it,” I say. I run down to the basement and reset the breakers in the fuse box. The past few months, we've been having power problems. Dad called the electric company and they told him it was a statewide issue and they'd send a technician as soon as possible. That was weeks ago. I return to the den to check that the TV is back on.

“Thanks, Lora,” says my father.

“Welcome, Dad.” I tell him I'm going upstairs to get ready, and I go—carefully again: careful up the stairs, careful down the hallway, careful into my room. Yes, it seems if I focus completely on what I'm doing, I can keep myself in the present.

I pull my blue dress from the closet. On it goes. I smile for the mirror. I look fine, but only fine, and fine is not enough because Wendy's brother will be there tonight. Not that I care about him, not really. I flip through my other clothes, but everything seems wrong: too fancy, too casual, too tight, too loose, too long, too short.

Finally, in the farthest, darkest corner, my hand slides on something soft. I pull whatever it is into the light and find peach silk with tiny printed flowers, cap sleeves, and a fluttering hem. The dress is not my dress, but it's not unfamiliar. It belonged to my mother.

The memories avalanche. At a cousin's wedding, she twirls
on the dance floor, the peach dress floating above her knees . . . I'm sitting on the floor with my babysitter, and my mother in the peach dress stoops to kiss me good-bye . . . It's her birthday and Dad and I are dressed up and waiting. He's wearing a tie and smells of his spicy aftershave. She comes down the stairs, blushing in her peach dress, her hair curling soft around her shoulders, lips pinked with lipstick. She is beautiful.

Why is her dress in my closet? As soon as the question forms in my mind, the memory answers. I am twelve years old. I'm in my bed, waiting for her to kiss me good night.
Mom?
I call out.
Mom!
Finally, she comes. Over her arm is the peach dress, scrunched and limp around her elbow.

What's that?
I ask.
Are you going out?

This is for you. I don't need it anymore.

I laugh.
That won't fit me
.
It's way too big
.

It'll fit you one day. And if not, you can keep it to remember me.

Okay
, I say happily.

She kisses my cheek.
I love you, Lora
, she tells me.
Don't ever forget.

I blink. I'm back in the present. I take off the blue cotton and slide on the peach silk. The dress fits me as if it were mine. And I'm pretty in it. Even I can see that, and I rarely think I'm pretty. My hair seems darker and shinier. I have a waist. I don't look like her, no, I'll never be as beautiful as my mother was. But in her dress, I am pretty.

Still, I'm unsettled by my memory of that night. It's not grief; it's not only grief. There was something odd about what
she said, and the way she said it. There was something odd about the fact she gave me her dress. It still fit her. She still wore it.

Then I realize that night was the last night I saw her.

That night was the night before the accident.

I don't need it anymore
, she had said.

I love you, Lora, don't ever forget
, she had said.

And the next morning, she was gone.

MY FATHER IS CALLING FOR ME. I GO DOWNSTAIRS AND FIND
him at the front door, tying his shoes, scrambling around for his keys. He looks at me. He looks at my dress. My mother's peach dress. He turns away. “Let's go,” he says.

I follow him outside and we get into the car. I can't tell if he is sad or angry or annoyed. Maybe I shouldn't have worn the dress. I want to apologize, but I'm not sure how to do it without mentioning Mom and making it worse. It's been five years, but he still doesn't like to talk about her.

It's a relief when we arrive.

“Finally!” Wendy says as she opens the door. “I'm so glad you could make it. How are you? How's your head? Do you like potato salad? Everyone's out in the yard. We got a new grill and they're trying to figure out how to get it to work. Can you believe it?”

“Thank you for having us,” says Dad.

“Your dress!” Wendy touches the silky fabric. “Is it new? I love it.”

“Thanks.” I glance at my father but he is already halfway down the hall.

“Are you mad at me?” whispers Wendy.

“Why would I be mad at you?” I am genuinely puzzled.

“Because I called your dad and told him what happened.”

“I'm not mad,” I say. “I know you meant well.”

“I did mean well!” Wendy slips her arm through my arm, grinning, and when I blink she transforms into that little girl again. She is showing me around her house on our very first playdate.
What do you want to do? Want to see my drawings? Or we can run outside. I have roller skates, do you?

“Come on, Lora,” says grown-up Wendy. “Aren't you hungry?”

My voice is lost somewhere in the past, so I nod, and we go out to the backyard. It's crowded with Wendy's family: her parents and her brother, plus aunts, uncles, and cousins. The adults are sitting around the table. The kids are roaming around the grass. I look for my dad. He appears wholly involved in conversation with two uncles.

“Lora! We heard about your heroics today,” says Mrs. Laskey. Wendy's mother is not as tall as Wendy, but just as slender, and looks so young that strangers occasionally mistake mother and daughter for sisters. Mrs. Laskey, of course, loves it when this happens. Wendy, of course, hates it.

“It was nothing.” I jab my elbow into Wendy's arm. She jabs me back.

“Are you kidding?” Tim materializes out of nowhere and
sits next to me. “You saved Ms. Pearl, my favorite teacher ever. In seventh grade she told me that girls would like me better if I stopped shooting spitballs into their hair. Best advice I've ever gotten.”

Wendy giggles and so does Mrs. Laskey, but I am statue-still, praying that the past stays past. Because I don't want to remember when I had that huge crush on Tim. I don't want to remember how I pined and pined, though I knew it was hopeless. Of course it was hopeless: Tim was older and funny and charming and popular and cute, so cute with his messy black hair and sleepy eyes and enormous laugh. And I was just that pesky girl who ran around with his kid sister.

I don't want to remember that, or what happened after that, so I concentrate on the hardness of my chair under my thighs. “How's college life?” I ask him, casual as can be.

“Terrible.” He sighs. “On top of schoolwork and studying, last semester I was working at the lab twenty hours a week. All these responsibilities really get in the way of my social life.”

“Don't listen to him, he just loves complaining,” says Wendy. “Whenever I visit he's playing computer games with all his nerd friends.”

Tim turns to his mother. “She's making it up,” he says. “I promise you, Mom, I would never have nerd friends.”

Mrs. Laskey beams at her bickering children. It's always loud and jolly at Wendy's house, which I appreciate, and appreciate even more right now—all these distractions seem to be holding back the memories. Perhaps my mind is too busy to go
wandering into the past when there is so much to look at and listen to and laugh about and eat.

And there is
so
much to eat. Dinner is a feast of grilled meat and fish and vegetables and potato salad and fruit salad and green salad and zucchini pie. My aunt calls to say she's going to be late, sorry, and we should start without her, so we do. We pile our food high on paper plates, and when one plate starts sagging we simply add another. The adults drink wine; Wendy and I are allowed one small glass each, and Tim is allowed one large glass.

When everyone is stuffed full Mrs. Laskey says, “Save room for dessert!” and everyone groans because it's too late, no one has saved any room for dessert. The unanimous decision is made to take a break. Wendy and I lie in the grass while her little cousins tumble around us. The adults chatter on, sitting around the table and drinking. I'm sleepy from my small glass of wine.

“I can't believe we've graduated,” says Wendy.

“Me neither,” I say. “Now what will become of us?”

“Fame, fortune, and happiness.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It's pretty obvious,” says Wendy.

Mrs. Laskey asks us to fix the dessert, so we go into the house. In the long hallway that connects the living room to the kitchen, we meet my aunt.

“My dear girls, I'm so sorry I'm so late,” she says. It's clear
she came straight from her meeting; she's still in her suit with her shirt buttoned tight to her throat. Her bobbed black hair is sleek to her chin. Aunt Austin looks like a serious woman, and she is a serious woman, but when she smiles her face changes so much it's hard to recognize her as that serious woman. She smiles now.

“We're just happy you're here. We know how busy you are,” says Wendy.

“Yes.” Aunt Austin nods, but she is looking at me. Or, more precisely, she is looking at my peach dress. Or, most precisely, she is looking at my mother's peach dress.

“How did your meeting go? Was it about the economic bill?” I ask.

She lifts her gaze to meet mine. I blink. I am six years old and I've just spilled my cranberry juice on her white rug. Aunt Austin scowls, her expression first directed at the ruby-red stain, then at me, and I'm sure I've ruined everything, and I'll never be invited over again. My teary eyes are a blink from bursting. I blink. I'm in the hallway at Wendy's house. But Aunt Austin's expression is still the same.

“That's Jeanette's dress,” she says.

“I'm sorry,” I say, apologizing for the juice, apologizing for the dress.

Aunt Austin turns around and walks toward the backyard. I follow Wendy into the kitchen, feeling thoroughly rebuked. But also slightly irritated: it's my mother's dress, I'm allowed to wear my mother's dress.

Wendy asks me to wash the raspberries and blueberries and blackberries.

“That was weird, right?” I say.

“What was weird?” she asks as she whisks the heavy cream.

“Aunt Austin,” I say, swirling fruit through water.

“I think she's so great,” Wendy says. Wendy thinks everyone is so great. It's the quality I find most admirable and most annoying about her.

“Maybe I'm being overly sensitive,” I say. But I don't think I'm being overly sensitive. First my father stops talking to me because of the peach dress, then my aunt does the same. They're the ones being overly sensitive.

“So that's your mom's dress?”

“Yeah.” I drain the berries and gently roll them into a clean bowl.

“I think it's nice you're wearing it. It fits you perfectly,” she says. “Will you boil water for the coffee?”

“Sure.” I put the kettle on.

“It's really pretty,” says Wendy.

“What's really pretty?”

“Your dress.”

“Well. Thank you.” I sense she wants me to talk about my feelings, and my mother, and my feelings about my mother, but I'm not in the mood.

“Oh, no!”

“What?”

“I got whipped cream all over my shirt.” Wendy turns to show me.

“How'd that happen?” I giggle. She really did get whipped cream all over her shirt. And arms. And face.

“I'd better rinse it before it stains,” she says as she runs from the room, shouting back that I should finish everything up. So I lift the chocolate cake out of the bakery box and put it on a plate. I set the plate on a tray and add the bowls of fruit and cream. A knife. Some extra serving spoons. The kettle starts screaming. I turn off the flame.

“What's taking so long?” asks someone behind me.

I spin around. It's freshman year. I'm standing on the steps in front of school, searching for whoever it was who'd called my name. Then I see him. And I'm nervous, and I don't know why. Tim is my best friend's brother, that's all. I've known him forever, that's all. But when he grins at me, I notice his mouth, the pink of his lips, and the slight slant of one front tooth; I notice his mouth as if it were new to his face, and I have to fold my fingers together to keep them down in their proper place.

“What do you want?” I say, too rushed, too rough. We're back in the kitchen but my pulse is still too quick.

“Mom sent me to see what was taking so long,” says Tim.

“Well, we could have used some help in here.” I do not dare look at him. I do not dare look at his mouth. I pluck up a blackberry, drop it into my own mouth, and press it apart with my tongue. The seeds stick in my teeth. My head throbs.

“Everything okay?” He touches my arm, the bare skin of my forearm.

“I'm fine.” I move away and his hand falls back to his side.

“It's great to see you. It's been ages, huh,” he says.

“Has it?” I say, though I know very well that it has. Even though Tim goes to college only a dozen miles away, at Middleton University, where my dad teaches, I've barely seen him these past two years. Partly because I've been avoiding him, mostly because it's been so easy to avoid him. Tim doesn't often come home during the semesters, and last summer he didn't come home at all because he was interning at a medical technology hospital on the east coast.

“You look good,” he says.

“Will you fix the coffee? The water's ready.”

“Sure.” Tim saunters over to the cabinets. He asks what I'm doing this summer.

“I'm working at the library, same as always.” I glance over. His back is to me now, and as he reaches for the tin of coffee grinds, his shirt lifts, revealing an inch of plaid boxers and pale skin. I turn quickly away.

“I better take all this dessert outside,” I say.

“Good idea. Those people want their cake, they're getting cranky,” he says.

The tray is heavy, so I move slowly. When I get to the door I tap on the glass, and one of the little cousins comes to slide it open. He stares at the chocolate cake. “Can I get some of that?” he asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yes, but not yet.” I step carefully around him, bring the tray to the table, and set it gently down. Only then do I realize that the adults are arguing. Not everyone: Dad is staring at the grass and Wendy's parents are clearing away the leftovers. But Aunt Austin and a couple of the other uncles and aunts are shouting and gesticulating and interrupting each other.

I go over to my father. “What's going on?” I whisper.

He sighs. “They're talking politics. What else?”

“Have those people lost their minds?” hollers one of Wendy's aunts, the one with twin daughters. “What about supporting our troops? What about national security? And what about all these crazy radical groups running around?”

“You actually think corporate tax cuts will help matters?” snaps an uncle to a different aunt.

“Look,” says Aunt Austin to another uncle, the tall bald one. “I understand what you're saying, but if you don't think we should compromise, and the other side is—let me assure you—just as unwilling to compromise, what happens then?”

The bald uncle says, “Compromise is what got us in this mess to begin with. The system is broken and drastic action needs to be taken. You think the economic bill is going to fix anything?”

“You know what the economic bill isn't going to fix? The fact I've been unemployed for the past year,” says the uncle with the fancy black facial hair.

“Maybe you'd have a job by now if you started looking for one,” mutters his wife. “And shaved that ridiculous mustache.”
She speaks quietly, but loudly enough so that everyone can hear.

Aunt Austin's face flattens as she tries to hide her amusement. “I'm sorry to hear of your troubles,” she says to the mustachioed uncle. “If you send your résumé to my office, I can pass it along to a friend of mine, a corporate headhunter.” She hands him her card, smiling her congresswoman smile: bright eyes, lips a smooth curve.

“Cake?” Mrs. Laskey says cheerfully. “Who wants cake?”

Everyone cheers. Everyone agrees on cake.

I go sit in the chair next to my aunt and tell her I'm sorry about the fuss.

“That? That was nothing,” she says. “Every day I deal with worse, much worse, between the constituents and the lobbyists, not to mention my congressional colleagues. Believe me, I don't mind a little dinner party debate.”

“I'm glad,” I say.

“Do you want some cake, my dear?” she asks. Apparently I've been forgiven for the dress offense, though it's impossible to know for sure because her congresswoman smile is still stuck to her mouth.

“Sure,” I say. “And thanks for coming tonight. I'm really glad you're here.”

My aunt reaches over and selects a particularly large and attractive slice of cake—one with a frosting flower—and sets it in front of me. Then she smiles, truly smiles. “Of course, Lora. I wouldn't have missed it for all the economic bills in the world.”

The party breaks up after dessert, which is probably for the best because most of the aunts and uncles will no longer look at each other, let alone talk to each other, despite Mrs. Laskey's chirpy attempts to restart an inoffensive—i.e., nonpolitical—conversation. Also, my head is throbbing again.